


Warm You Thrice

by Copgirl1964



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Winter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:01:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28897056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Copgirl1964/pseuds/Copgirl1964
Summary: During a weekend at his parents' house, Mycroft is watching Greg chopping wood.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 7
Kudos: 69





	1. November

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EventHorizon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/gifts).



> Here's the first chapter of the story EventHorizon kindly bought to support @bookjunkiecat's medical bill.   
> I'm very grateful @Lavender_and_Vanilla kindly beta-ed it.

“Why don’t you let me peel the potatoes, mummy?”

“Are you feeling alright, Mycie,” Violet Holmes asked, rushing to her eldest to feel his forehead.

“Very funny, mummy. I only want to help,” Mycroft lied. Stepping away from his mother, he took the bowl with the potatoes and carried it to the window, where he placed it on the sill. The bowl was a little too big and he had to steady it with his hip to avoid the bowl tumbling to the floor. That was alright though, because from this very window he’d the perfect view of the garden. Not only the garden but the corner where the chopping block was located.

Mycroft felt his mother staring at his back as he reached for the first potato.

Both he and Sherlock had agreed to spend their parent’s 50th wedding anniversary at their house, accompanied by John Watson, his daughter Rosie and Greg Lestrade. Half an hour ago, they had barely finished afternoon tea, his father had persuaded Greg to help him chop some wood for the fireplace. Helping him meant that his father was now playing a game called Sneaky Snacky Squirrel with Rosie Watson in the living room, while Greg was doing the chopping outside. Sherlock and John had left for a walk through the nearby village.

Mycroft knew little about wood-chopping except that a certain strength as well as hand/axe-eye coordination was needed, but he assessed Greg‘s performance as outstanding. Until now, he’d always enjoyed the cooler temperatures during late autumn and winter, but admitted that climate change had its advantages. The silver-haired man Mycroft was proud to call his husband, had taken off his jacket and traded his button-down shirt for a t-shirt he’d probably planned to sleep in. Mycroft favoured that choice because the black t-shirt gave him an unobstructed view not only of Greg‘s strong hands but the well-shaped arms too.

Whoosh, clunk.

One determined blow with the axe, and another log was split in half, adding to the pile right next to the chopping block. 

Holding the potato in his left and the potato peeler in the right hand, Mycroft took measured breaths, while he watched Greg work. For a moment, he considered taking out his mobile phone to make a video of Greg wielding that axe. Mycroft was no vlogger, but publishing such a video would undoubtedly bounce him all the way up into some vlogger stratosphere where only the most important influencers roamed.

Whoosh, clunk.

Could watching a man chopping wood called be a kink? The stirring that occurred in Mycroft‘s loins certainly justified such consideration.  
“Are you actually going to peel that potato or do you hope to convince the peel to fall off on its own?” Mycroft’s mother interrupted her son‘s musings.

Startled, Mycroft almost dropped the potato before he quickly started the work he’d volunteered for. Keeping his gaze mostly on his axe-wielding husband, it took him twenty minutes before he could hand over the bowl that held the fruits of his work.

“Thank you, Mycie,” his mother said. “Why don’t you go outside for a bit of fresh air. You’re looking a bit flushed.”

“Yes, mummy.” Mycroft agreed, quickly leaving the kitchen to fetch his husband. Hoping his mother didn‘t notice the strategically held teatowel, he made a bee-line for the garden to do something about the stirring that had occurred earlier.

Incredulously, Violet Holmes stared into the bowl Mycroft had handed her. She’d always considered peeling potatoes a task that didn’t require special skills but maybe she’d been wrong. The potatoes her son had peeled, were either peeled down to half their original size or partially peeled, parts of the potato skin still attached. Well, her younger son would return soon. Perhaps he could be persuaded to finish the task.

Meanwhile, Mycroft dragged Greg into the house and straight to their room, where he pressed him against the closed door.

“You…” he panted, nuzzling Greg’s neck. “You are magnificent.” Soft lips closed over his pulse point, sucking gently at moist skin. “Exquisite.” A nip at Greg’s ear lobe and then Mycroft was kissing him as if his life depended on it. All Greg could do was cling to Mycroft’s shoulders, enjoying the ride, as his mouth was artfully plundered.

Before their first kiss, Greg would have never dreamed that Mycroft Holmes, the man with the condescending smile, who wore impeccable suits, talked posh and sported the nickname “the Iceman”, could kiss like a champion. 

Greg had no idea what had brought on the assault but saw no reason to question Mycroft, who was getting down on his knees in front of him momentarily to open his trousers with trembling fingers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft go on an overdue holiday.

“Yes, we’ll be back in two weeks,” Greg explained patiently. “Just after Valentine’s Day.” Holding his mobile phone between shoulder and ear, he packed both his and Mycroft’s winter boots into the bag that already held thermal underwear, their merino wool jumpers, insulated cargo trousers and about everything else that would make a polar expedition possible.

Greg managed to close the bag’s zip, and celebrated the success with a quick fist-pump.

“John, it was you who suggested going on a holiday so Mycroft would paint some landscape instead of me.”

He listened for a moment to the doctor’s reply.

“Yes, of course. And me, taking pictures of anything but Mycroft.”

He knew John was correct. Mycroft, who’d taken up painting some years ago, had painted nothing and nobody but Greg for at least a year. In return, Greg, whose hobby was black and white photography, found himself incapable of finding anything but Mycroft even remotely worth photographing.

“Anyway, try to keep his nibs out of trouble and we’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”

Mycroft stuck his head into the room and signalled Greg that they needed to leave in ten minutes.

“Perhaps get him a Valentine’s card,” Greg added. He ended the call with a laugh while John was still making rude noises at the other end of the line. He carried the bag to the door and rushed upstairs for the final check of their house although he was certain Mycroft had done that already.

Satisfied that everything was in order, they left the house exactly nine minutes later. A cab was just pulling up as they carried their suitcases and bags to the curb.  
Greg was feeling giddy with excitement. Things in the UK had gone pear-shaped right after they’d got married some months ago, making it impossible for Mycroft to leave London. Now they’d finally have their postponed honeymoon.

Greg had dreamed about some Polynesian island, but Mycroft had surprised him by insisting that Scotland was the perfect location at that time of the year. Cairngorms National Park to be precise. His husband had booked a five star luxury log cabin near Aviemore, where they’d spend two weeks honeymooning. According to the weather forecast, there would be lots and lots of snow but also blue skies. Perfect for activities both outdoors and indoors. Beaver Creek Lodge, Greg had learned, even came with its own sauna, hot tub and a fireplace.

* * *  
„That was the highest high tea I‘ve ever had,“ Greg remarked as they left the plane, his stomach pleasantly full with tea and scones. The food had been included in their business class flight to Inverness, and Greg had made good use of the service. Mycroft, as well as the flight attendant, had enjoyed watching him eating the scones with obvious delight. Years of crappy food had provided Greg with great appreciation for the culinary delights he now enjoyed in Mycroft’s company. He could have afforded it before, he just had never cared enough to go the extra mile.

They took a cab from the airport to the train station in Inverness to catch their train to Aviemore. From there, they’d be picked up and brought to their cabin.

Stepping from the train onto the platform, Greg walked a few steps before he stopped to take a deep breath. With half-closed eyes, his face turned towards the sun, he tasted the crisp winter-air, before releasing a warm cloud from pursed lips back into the cold.

“Happy?” Mycroft drawled. Although he sounded amused, his eyes were soft.

“Yes.” Greg opened his eyes, grinned broadly and placed a kiss on his husband’s mouth. “Let’s go.”

Carrying their luggage, they followed the other passengers towards the exit.

A woman with long blond hair, partially hidden under what looked like a self-knitted bobble-hat, was waiting for them with a sign that read Holmes/ Lestrade. After a short greeting, she led them through the slush that covered the parking lot behind the station to a Land Rover.

“You both have to ride in the back,” she told them, once they had loaded their luggage into the car’s booth. She indicated a dog, obviously past his prime, occupying the passenger seat in the front.

Greg peered through the window before he climbed into the back and scooted over to make room for Mycroft. “A Scottie?”

The woman nodded. “Yes. I took Eddie to the vet for his annual shots before I came here, and he can’t sit anywhere but on the front seat. Otherwise he’d puke all over the car.”

Mycroft made a face but didn’t comment. He’d no interest in acquiring a pet but respected those who took care of them.

“Hey Eddie,” Greg greeted the dog, who managed to look highly offended, being addressed in such a rude manner by some stranger.

“His full name is Edward Brian Dunaid,” Greg was told. “His ancestors can probably be traced back to the time when the vikings arrived. Not that I think the vikings had Scotties. Until last year he had,” she made air quotes, “a brother. A Westhighland terrier, whose papers declared him to be Elroy Winston McDuff. Passed away last year, the old thing. Eddie is now a single-child.” She rubbed the dog between his grey ears.

“Anyway,” I doubt you came here to get introduced to this grumpy gent.” She started the car. “It’s only a short drive to Beaver Creek Lodge.”  
Steering the Range Rover through the light traffic, she pointed out a couple of supermarkets and other shops along the way. Less than ten minutes later, the Range Rover came to a stop at a cleared footpath that led into a copse.

“The rest is on foot,” the woman said, hopping out of the Range Rover.

They followed the woman along a narrow path that led to a log cabin. The snow crunched under their boots. The branches of shrubs and some pine trees were covered with snow, reminding Greg of the film “The Chronicles of Narnia”, which he’d watched with his daughter some years ago.

He nudged Mycroft gently with the bag he carried. “You reckon Mr. Tumnus lives around here?”

Mycroft only shook his head for an answer, so Greg added, “You could compare umbrellas, you know.”

Suppressing the urge to drop the luggage and push his husband into a snow-drift, Mycroft was about to reply, but the next moment they arrived at their destination.

They all left their snow-covered boots next to the door and shed their coats, before their guide gave them a quick tour through the lodge, finishing by explaining the settings for the sauna and the hot tub. 

“Well, I’m off. Give me a call, if you need anything. My mobile number is in the folder on the table.”

They thanked her and Mycroft was about to close the door, when the woman turned. “Oh, I almost forgot. As requested, there’s no chopped fire-wood, except the pile next to the fireplace. You can find the axe in the little shed outside.” With that she was gone, leaving a red-faced Mycroft and a smugly grinning Greg in her wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To have a look, where Greg and Mycroft are going to spend the next two weeks, check out this link: https://uk.hotels.com/ho1227456640/beaver-creek-lodge-aviemore-united-kingdom/


End file.
